Scaramouche, by Rafael Sabatini

Chapter 4

The Heritage

It was M. de Vilmorin’s desire that the matter should be settled out of hand. In this he was at once
objective and subjective. A prey to emotions sadly at conflict with his priestly vocation, he was above all in haste to
have done, so that he might resume a frame of mind more proper to it. Also he feared himself a little; by which I mean
that his honour feared his nature. The circumstances of his education, and the goal that for some years now he had kept
in view, had robbed him of much of that spirited brutality that is the birthright of the male. He had grown timid and
gentle as a woman. Aware of it, he feared that once the heat of his passion was spent he might betray a dishonouring
weakness, in the ordeal.

M. le Marquis, on his side, was no less eager for an immediate settlement; and since they had M. de Chabrillane to
act for his cousin, and Andre–Louis to serve as witness for M. de Vilmorin, there was nothing to delay them.

And so, within a few minutes, all arrangements were concluded, and you behold that sinisterly intentioned little
group of four assembled in the afternoon sunshine on the bowling-green behind the inn. They were entirely private,
screened more or less from the windows of the house by a ramage of trees, which, if leafless now, was at least dense
enough to provide an effective lattice.

There were no formalities over measurements of blades or selection of ground. M. le Marquis removed his sword-belt
and scabbard, but declined — not considering it worth while for the sake of so negligible an opponent — to divest
himself either of his shoes or his coat. Tall, lithe, and athletic, he stood to face the no less tall, but very
delicate and frail, M. de Vilmorin. The latter also disdained to make any of the usual preparations. Since he
recognized that it could avail him nothing to strip, he came on guard fully dressed, two hectic spots above the
cheek-bones burning on his otherwise grey face.

M. de Chabrillane, leaning upon a cane — for he had relinquished his sword to M. de Vilmorin — looked on with quiet
interest. Facing him on the other side of the combatants stood Andre–Louis, the palest of the four, staring from
fevered eyes, twisting and untwisting clammy hands.

His every instinct was to fling himself between the antagonists, to protest against and frustrate this meeting. That
sane impulse was curbed, however, by the consciousness of its futility. To calm him, he clung to the conviction that
the issue could not really be very serious. If the obligations of Philippe’s honour compelled him to cross swords with
the man he had struck, M. de La Tour d’Azyr’s birth compelled him no less to do no serious hurt to the unfledged lad he
had so grievously provoked. M. le Marquis, after all, was a man of honour. He could intend no more than to administer a
lesson; sharp, perhaps, but one by which his opponent must live to profit. Andre–Louis clung obstinately to that for
comfort.

Steel beat on steel, and the men engaged. The Marquis presented to his opponent the narrow edge of his upright body,
his knees slightly flexed and converted into living springs, whilst M. de Vilmorin stood squarely, a full target, his
knees wooden. Honour and the spirit of fair play alike cried out against such a match.

The encounter was very short, of course. In youth, Philippe had received the tutoring in sword-play that was given
to every boy born into his station of life. And so he knew at least the rudiments of what was now expected of him. But
what could rudiments avail him here? Three disengages completed the exchanges, and then without any haste the Marquis
slid his right foot along the moist turf, his long, graceful body extending itself in a lunge that went under M. de
Vilmorin’s clumsy guard, and with the utmost deliberation he drove his blade through the young man’s vitals.

Andre–Louis sprang forward just in time to catch his friend’s body under the armpits as it sank. Then, his own legs
bending beneath the weight of it, he went down with his burden until he was kneeling on the damp turf. Philippe’s limp
head lay against Andre–Louis’ left shoulder; Philippe’s relaxed arms trailed at his sides; the blood welled and bubbled
from the ghastly wound to saturate the poor lad’s garments.

With white face and twitching lips, Andre–Louis looked up at M. de La Tour d’Azyr, who stood surveying his work with
a countenance of grave but remorseless interest.

“You have killed him!” cried Andre–Louis.

“Of course.”

The Marquis ran a lace handkerchief along his blade to wipe it. As he let the dainty fabric fall, he explained
himself. “He had, as I told him, a too dangerous gift of eloquence.”

And he turned away, leaving completest understanding with Andre–Louis. Still supporting the limp, draining body, the
young man called to him.

The Marquis half turned, his face dark with anger. Then M. de Chabrillane set a restraining hand upon his arm.
Although a party throughout to the deed, the Chevalier was a little appalled now that it was done. He had not the high
stomach of M. de La Tour d’Azyr, and he was a good deal younger.

“Come away,” he said. “The lad is raving. They were friends.”

“You heard what he said?” quoth the Marquis.

“Nor can he, or you, or any man deny it,” flung back Andre–Louis. “Yourself, monsieur, you made confession when you
gave me now the reason why you killed him. You did it because you feared him.”

“If that were true — what, then?” asked the great gentleman.

“Do you ask? Do you understand of life and humanity nothing but how to wear a coat and dress your hair — oh, yes,
and to handle weapons against boys and priests? Have you no mind to think, no soul into which you can turn its vision?
Must you be told that it is a coward’s part to kill the thing he fears, and doubly a coward’s part to kill in this way?
Had you stabbed him in the back with a knife, you would have shown the courage of your vileness. It would have been a
vileness undisguised. But you feared the consequences of that, powerful as you are; and so you shelter your cowardice
under the pretext of a duel.”

The Marquis shook off his cousin’s hand, and took a step forward, holding now his sword like a whip. But again the
Chevalier caught and held him.

“No, no, Gervais! Let be, in God’s name!”

“Let him come, monsieur,” raved Andre–Louis, his voice thick and concentrated. “Let him complete his coward’s work
on me, and thus make himself safe from a coward’s wages.”

M. de Chabrillane let his cousin go. He came white to the lips, his eyes glaring at the lad who so recklessly
insulted him. And then he checked. It may be that he remembered suddenly the relationship in which this young man was
popularly believed to stand to the Seigneur de Gavrillac, and the well-known affection in which the Seigneur held him.
And so he may have realized that if he pushed this matter further, he might find himself upon the horns of a dilemma.
He would be confronted with the alternatives of shedding more blood, and so embroiling himself with the Lord of
Gavrillac at a time when that gentleman’s friendship was of the first importance to him, or else of withdrawing with
such hurt to his dignity as must impair his authority in the countryside hereafter.

Be it so or otherwise, the fact remains that he stopped short; then, with an incoherent ejaculation, between anger
and contempt, he tossed his arms, turned on his heel and strode off quickly with his cousin.

When the landlord and his people came, they found Andre–Louis, his arms about the body of his dead friend, murmuring
passionately into the deaf ear that rested almost against his lips:

At a glance they saw that here neither priest nor doctor could avail. The cheek that lay against Andre–Louis’s was
leaden-hued, the half-open eyes were glazed, and there was a little froth of blood upon the vacuously parted lips.

Half blinded by tears Andre–Louis stumbled after them when they bore the body into the inn. Upstairs in the little
room to which they conveyed it, he knelt by the bed, and holding the dead man’s hand in both his own, he swore to him
out of his impotent rage that M. de La Tour d’Azyr should pay a bitter price for this.

“It was your eloquence he feared, Philippe,” he said. “Then if I can get no justice for this deed, at least it shall
be fruitless to him. The thing he feared in you, he shall fear in me. He feared that men might be swayed by your
eloquence to the undoing of such things as himself. Men shall be swayed by it still. For your eloquence and your
arguments shall be my heritage from you. I will make them my own. It matters nothing that I do not believe in your
gospel of freedom. I know it — every word of it; that is all that matters to our purpose, yours and mine. If all else
fails, your thoughts shall find expression in my living tongue. Thus at least we shall have frustrated his vile aim to
still the voice he feared. It shall profit him nothing to have your blood upon his soul. That voice in you would never
half so relentlessly have hounded him and his as it shall in me — if all else fails.”

It was an exulting thought. It calmed him; it soothed his grief, and he began very softly to pray. And then his
heart trembled as he considered that Philippe, a man of peace, almost a priest, an apostle of Christianity, had gone to
his Maker with the sin of anger on his soul. It was horrible. Yet God would see the righteousness of that anger. And in
no case — be man’s interpretation of Divinity what it might — could that one sin outweigh the loving good that Philippe
had ever practised, the noble purity of his great heart. God after all, reflected Andre–Louis, was not a
grand-seigneur.